Risk
by bourbon in your coffee
Summary: Just one of the many meetings between Jack and Irina in the years Sydney is missing. Irina’s sick. Jack worries about her and their mission.
1. One

Risk

Just one of the many meetings between Jack and Irina in the years Sydney is missing. Irina's sick. Jack worries about her and their mission.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

AN: Randomly saw a few episodes from season two recently and remembered how much I love Jack and Irina together. I have huge gaps in my Alias knowledge, and I question my ability to write spy fic that isn't completely ridiculous, so feel free to point out anything that's wrong. Thanks for reading.

--

_and the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more_

--

He's pretending to read the German newspaper he picked up at the train station, the occasional word striking at his attention like a flashbulb, while his eyes and his mind drift elsewhere. She's late. She almost always is, but it still unnerves him. He's been sitting in a nondescript café somewhere in the heart of the former Eastern sector of Berlin for nearly half an hour. It's a place Irina would feel comfortable in, he thinks – and presumably she does, as she was the one to call the meeting – but he feels exposed, out-of-place here. He can feel the eyes of the wait staff on him. His coffee's long gone cold.

The door creaks, a bell chimes as she walks in. He knows it's her without looking up, like there's an extra sense that connects them. She brushes his arm as she walks past him, the most intimate greeting he can expect in public. He feels the comfort of this routine settle over him, a gesture of normality in these dark times, and then he sees her face as she sits down across from him and his stomach clenches.

He can count on one hand the number of times he's truly seen Irina's composure disturbed. She always maintains perfect control, always masks her thoughts with an expression of confidence and the knowledge that her secrets will always remain her own. Any display of emotion is calculated. This is why after 20 years he still only knows about her what she chooses to reveal herself. And now exhaustion and resignation and something else – something worse – are etched into the lines of her face. Her eyes are too bright, her movements too heavy. He can see the effort that just being here is costing her.

Fear tugs at him when he realizes she could have brought him here for an entirely different reason. Maybe she didn't have information from another contact or plans for another recon mission...maybe she had something to tell him about Sydney, something final.

"What's wrong?"

Her lips twitch slightly as if she's holding back a smile. "Nothing."

So it's not Sydney. But there is something. She orders tea but makes no move to drink it, merely wrapping her hands loosely around the mug. A lemon slice floats on top like something dead. She watches him watching her and blows out a breath. "I'm just feeling a little under the weather, that's all."

Her tone is firm, indicating that that's as much of an answer as he's going to get. They know her here; they won't be bothered. There are more important things to discuss.

"Ilya Semyonov is in town." She paused to see if he recognized the name. "He's a major player in the underworld, has extensive connections to criminal organizations throughout the world. People, dealings, secret alliances – he knows a lot about what goes on behind closed doors, and he's known for monitoring and recording the activities of the underworld at large on an unprecedented level."

"You think he has information relating to Sydney?"

"My contact is sure he has something – maybe helpful, maybe not. The circumstances surrounding her...death and her relationship with me are enough to make her a subject of interest. There's a possibility his surveillance has turned something up that we haven't seen before."

They lapse into silence. He thinks about how many fool's errands they've gone on before, always turning up the same information and being driven in a maddening circle, never closer to the truth. The past year (13 months, 5 days, almost 20 hours since _that moment_) has not been kind to either of them. They're sinking resources and lifetimes into a mission that just drags them deeper, buries them in a black hole they cannot hope to escape. The danger of working together has long been brushed aside. It is too hard to care about these things now. And the business relationship, born out of a need for answers and vengeance, quickly became personal. They both needed something more. And there is even trust, understanding, and, yes, love – nothing complete, because neither can give the other everything, but it is enough.

They know so little of each other, and so much.

He thinks this is another useless grasp for information that simply doesn't exist. But he (they) will always take the chance that _this time _they will find something real, and the world will no longer be shattered. It is the one thing to cling to besides her warm body on nights too far apart. "What's the plan?"

She outlines it quickly. They will act tonight. Semyonov is using a house in Zehlendorf, conveniently isolated by a swathe of forest. The trees will give them cover coming and going; the safe house can be reached on foot (a long walk, but safe) and the forest will make them virtually untraceable. Her man on the inside has control of security. The cellar door will be left unlocked for them, and they will use the back staircase to access the second floor and Semyonov's personal database.

"Semyonov relies mostly on surveillance security, not manpower. Any guards stay close to him, and if we're lucky he'll be out of the house tonight. My man will loop all the video feeds – he guarantees us ten minutes – and we have all the access codes for the computer. If something goes wrong, the fire alarm will be pulled to warn us so we can get the hell out of there."

"This seems too easy."

She nods. "I know. If everything goes as planned, it will be easy."

"Famous last words," he says, with a slight smile. But the whole situation feels off to him. Too many things can go wrong on a mission like this, and having Irina not up to full-strength doesn't help matters. She's pale, her body filled with tension, and he thinks he can see tremors rippling through her body every few minutes. She is obviously underplaying whatever's wrong with her. If it comes down to a fight and her senses or reaction times are even a little bit slow, it could cost them everything.

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

He's relieved when her eyes snap up to meet his with their usual resolve. "Semyonov doesn't stay in one place for long. We need to do this now."

"I understand. I just think it's unwise to further jeopardize the success of a mission like this by ignoring any physical...limitations you might have at the moment."

Irina is bristling now, her hands clenched so tightly around the mug of cold tea he's sure she'll break it. She growls, "And you haven't gone on missions when you were less than completely fit for duty? This is part of our job, it's what we do."

They stare at each other for a long moment, testing how hard the other is willing to fight. He knows she won't back down, knows he should trust her judgment even if he disagrees. They have become more reckless in the past year, more comfortable with courting death, but neither of them is desperate enough to doom a mission before it's begun. And the argument has brought back her fire; maybe if he can keep her angry during the mission, everything will be fine. This thought amuses him – their tempers are both sharp, and flares of anger are already a given.

Her gaze is steady, unbending. "I know very well what's at stake here, Jack. I'm ready."

"Then let's go."

They stand as one. He lets her past to lead the way out into evening, and again she brushes against him in a familiar movement. This time he feels the heat radiating from her, unnaturally, perhaps dangerously, high, and he feels sick at the thought of what might happen.

He grips her arm (_like a furnace_) and holds her back. "Irina..."

"Jack." It's too late; she's intent on carrying out the mission. Her eyes are set, but she senses his worry and squeezes his hand briefly. She releases herself and walks out into the dying light. He can only follow.

--

They say little during the trek through the forest, and the woods, as if discerning the sobriety of their movement, mirror their quietness. This only increases Jack's feeling of foreboding.

They are both armed, and he insisted on bringing a few small charges to set along their way to the database in case they are compromised. They are tiny, little more than smoke and sparks, but they might provide enough of a distraction to make a run for it.

The trees begin to thin around them, and suddenly they can see the outline of a building before them. Both hesitate, stopping within the last meters of safety behind the treeline, searching out each other's faces in the dark at precisely the same moment. Something must be said.

Irina opens her mouth, wavers, settles for, "As soon as the cameras pick us up in the clearing, the video will be looped. Ten minutes."

And so it begins.

They run. Through the cellar door, hurrying up the old staircase. The house is too silent, and each step seems to echo too loudly – it is impossible to balance speed and caution, so they just move. Jack taps small circles of explosives into place (under the railing, above his head) as Irina leads.

The room with Semyonov's database is just ahead. One last charge laid in the doorframe. It is a large room – two entrances and a wall of windows add to the feeling of exposure. The screen of the computer is lit up, as if waiting for them. Jack is already entering the codes Irina gave him, slipping in the disk to start the file transfer. Irina prowls between the two doorways, listening and watching intently for any hint of danger. Minutes pass, and both are acutely aware of the time. Three minutes left, and the copying is finished. Irina is beside him now; he gives her the disk to stow inside her jacket and moves to erase the computer's recent history.

The unmistakeable _click _of a gun being cocked, assuredly levelled at them, breaks into the calm of the room.

And then, too late, the fire alarm goes off.

--

More to come. Reviews would be awesome.


	2. Two

Disclaimer: I own nothing, no creative infringement intended, etc. etc.

AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It is really motivating. This is a long section, but it didn't feel right to break it up anywhere else. I hope you don't mind.

--

_nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then everything happens_

--

Jack and Irina freeze as they register the new presences in the room, taking in the familiar sound of military boots on hardwood and the cold, well-oiled roll of weapons being primed to fire.

A lightly accented voice cuts across the din of the alarm. "I thought I heard something – and here you are, so much better than the rat-vermin I was expecting." The man's tone is mockingly polite, with the flippancy of someone who knows they hold complete control over a situation. "Please drop your weapons and put your hands in the air."

Jack's eyes flicker towards Irina, who briefly, calmly returns his gaze. She seems untroubled by this interruption to their mission, and Jack relaxes fractionally: they can get out of this. Both turn to face Semyonov and his men, moving apart to give each other some room, and unholster the guns at their waists, tossing them to the floor where they clatter towards the figures in the doorway.

"And the disk, please, as well. You mustn't think that I do not know what you came here for."

Irina drops one arm to reach inside her jacket and pulls out the disk. She lets it fall to the ground – and there is something strangely deliberate about this movement – and kicks it over to the men, where the one unarmed man bends to reclaim it.

Semyonov would be unremarkable in a crowd: close-cropped grey hair, an average build, and thin, angular features. He smiles at his captives, revealing perfectly white and straight teeth. It would be charming, but there is an edge to all of his actions that indicate he would like nothing more than to see them strung up and shot in his yard.

He stands bookended by two guards standing precisely to attention, and Jack chances a glance behind him to check out the second entrance to the room. Three more men with machine guns wait there. He lets his mind half-disengage, calculating the possible escape scenarios and the probabilities of success. He is sure Irina is doing the same thing, her vaguely bored expression shielding the strategic workings of her brain.

Semyonov moves forward casually, pausing to pick up one of the discarded guns on the floor. He stops in front of Irina, standing close enough that they are almost chest to chest. "Irina Derevko," he says with insincere reverence, his lips twisting sardonically. "You come yourself to steal from me. I suppose I should feel honoured."

Irina is smiling dangerously back at him, saying nothing. Jack knows there is some kind of power-game being played out in front of him – _must be a Russian thing_.

Semyonov pushes the muzzle of his borrowed pistol into her forehead, adjusting it until it aims right between Irina's eyes. "If you play nice, you and your friend may even walk out of here." He lets a moment of tense silence pass. "Who betrayed me?"

"Kirilov." Irina answers without hesitation.

Semyonov stares at her as he weighs this information, then begins to laugh hoarsely. "Ah, yes, of course. It always is the one you depend on the most, isn't it? Dear Konstantin was just advising me that my security measures must be improved – and wouldn't he know!"

Semyonov's amusement disperses as quickly as it came. He jerks his head towards the door Jack and Irina had entered through with a muttered "take care of it." Two of the guards lingering in the other doorway break out of formation, cross the room rapidly, and disappear down the back staircase.

Three guards remain, and Semyonov.

Jack brings his hands together in the air, casually letting his fingers slide down his left wrist until they settle on the inconspicuous detonation strap he tied on before. If they could distract the guards for a minute with the explosives and take one or two of them out, they might _just _be able to swing a getaway. There is only one guard in front of the door behind them now...

Semyonov is even making things easier by backing away from Irina to create a more comfortable distance between them. He's still got his gun trained between her eyes, but he's given up valuable ground, trusting his advantage a shade too much, and it will be used against him.

"Tell me more, Irina. What exactly in my database is of interest to you? Or are you working for someone?" He finally spares a glance for Jack. "And this man, who is he? Doesn't seem to be your usual type."

Jack is itching to detonate the first explosive –time spent listening to Semyonov's self-congratulation could be time spent getting the hell out of there before reinforcements arrive or Semyonov becomes aggressive. He tries to read Irina's body language to see if she's ready to go. Are they anywhere near being on the same page as each other? It's impossible to tell.

Irina shifts position slightly, redistributing her weight, and shakes her hair back behind her shoulders. Nonchalance and restlessness in one. "So many questions, Ilya, but it is not yet the time to answer them."

It's all the signal Jack needs.

The floorboards rattle satisfyingly under their feet as the first charge blows. Semyonov's head snaps reflexively towards the sound, and Irina uses his second of confusion to lunge for him. In a single continuous movement she wrenches the pistol from him and whips him across the face with it, then pivots and takes out the solitary guard behind them with a shot to the head.

Jack acts in tandem with her, detonating the rest of the staircase explosives and, a second later, the one laid in the doorway above the last two guards' heads. The blasts are stronger than he expected. Wood splinters rain down around them as they run together for the safe set of stairs, the other having (presumably) been blown to bits. Jack slows momentarily to rip the gun from the limp hands of the man Irina killed.

They are unfamiliar with this part of the house, but it hardly matters. They make it to the first floor, entering a room that is almost identical to the one they've just fled. The wall of windows gives them a clear view of the forest, and Jack wastes no time in using the machine gun to shatter the glass. It's faster this way: the path of least resistance. He goes through the window frame first, dropping a few feet and landing easily on the grass, and leads Irina in a sprint for the treeline.

A spray of gunfire breaks out behind them, and Jack is pleased by how distant it already sounds until he hears the shocked gasp and faltering steps behind them. Irina's been hit. His instincts continue to carry him forward, but his pace slows unconsciously as he turns to see how bad it is.

He barely has to cock his head – she's nearly caught up to him, having only weakened for a second, it seems – but it's enough to see her pained, enraged expression. She screams something unintelligible at him, something along the lines of _Keep running, you idiot!_

And he does. The combination of panic and adrenaline is leaving him deafened by his own heartbeat. He struggles to think as they crash through the undergrowth. Putting as much distance as possible between them and the people that want to kill them is the obvious priority. And he tries to concentrate on that, but his thoughts keep gravitating back to one thing: on any other day, Irina would be outrunning him. He strains to listen for sounds of pursuit, but all he hears is Irina's increasingly ragged breathing.

Neither of them can keep up the pace forever. After a few more minutes, the struggle to keep running is beginning to become more acute for Jack as well. He knows he'll have to be the one to call a stop, as Irina would rather run herself into the ground than admit 'weakness.' And he longs to tell her that she can never be _weak_; even (perhaps especially) in moments like this she is ferocious and beautiful and unbreakable.

He thinks they're out of any immediate danger, so he holds up a hand and stops, still keeping to the thickest cover of trees and foliage he can find. He watches Irina slow up behind him and, pointedly avoiding looking at him, prop her back against a nearby tree, sliding down into a semi-defensive crouch. One hand is over her heart as she works to steady her breathing. Now he can see the dark mark on the sleeve covering her upper arm where the bullet hit. He decides to give her some privacy, a few moments to collect her bearings, while he checks the area and listens for signs of pursuit.

The woods are as quiet as before. Jack feels somewhat ridiculous keeping his machine gun levelled at decidedly non-threatening leaves and shadows, but he completes the patrol around their temporary shelter, whiling away some extra minutes. When he returns, she is quite calmly probing the wound in her arm.

"You okay?"

She stops inspecting it and hugs her arms into her chest. "Just a graze. It's not even bleeding that much."

He nods, relief flooding through his body with an intensity that surprises him. The moonlight gives a silvery cast to the scenery around them, and he can see her well, but not completely. The shadows obscure her features.

She speaks again, leaning her head back against the tree and gazing upward. "It even helped a bit – the pain let me keep my head during the run."

Jack isn't sure how to respond, tries for levity. "Couldn't you just have bitten your tongue, or something?" He moves closer to her until he too can lean against that tree, looking down at her.

He gets a glimmer of a smile from her for his efforts, but she abruptly drops her head to her knees and groans. "Ugh...it feels like something's trying to bludgeon its way out of my head. _That's _what's killing me." And she lifts her head again to look at him, and he cannot be sure if it's a trick of the moonlight or if her eyes are really shimmering with the veneer of tears.

He had been expecting something cryptic from her (he always does), some loaded and evasive _I'm fine_ to push him away. And now she's throwing honesty at him, and he just stands there because he can't understand what she wants from him. In the back of his mind runs a thrumming chorus: this is bad, this is very, very bad.

He bends down a little to reach her forehead, in one gesture brushing some hair from her eyes and checking her temperature (_hot, growing hotter_), and he says the most inadequate, inane thing (he's keeping up appearances for both of them). "I'm sorry this turned out so badly. But I don't think we're being followed."

"I'm sure Semyonov has a lot to worry about right now. And he thinks we left empty-handed."

Jack's nodding his way through her assessment of the situation when – "Wait, he _thinks _we left empty-handed?"

Irina slides a hand into her jacket again, pulling something out from under her bra strap, and holds a disk out to him that's identical to the one they lost to Semyonov. "You didn't think I only carried one disk, did you, Jack?" Suddenly her lips are curving into a sly smile, and her eyes are alight with triumph.

This is the Irina he knows. He can't stifle a grin of his own, one full of surprise and pride. He has to admit that being a participant in her deception is a vast improvement over being the target of it.

The moment is broken when Irina reverts to business. "We should go. It's still a ways back to the safe house."

He holds out a hand to help her up. And promptly has to catch her when her legs waver and almost take her back down to the forest floor (_he sees her eyes close against this new wave of sickness, the deep-core shiver that passes through her like a lightning strike_). It happens so fast the panic hits him when she is already in his arms, hugged to the left side of his body. He's holding most of her weight, the little of it there is, but she's still conscious and muttering something into his chest. Her words are muffled by his body but he picks up the odd sound, things like _vertigo _and _fuck _and _all right_. And if she hadn't felt so small and scorching and shaky under his hands, he would have laughed at Irina's self-diagnoses and attempts to comfort him.

Jack is lost in the sensation of holding her, of cleaving to her in this place far removed from the bedroom and the trappings of sex. This doesn't happen, ever. There is worry and need and giving on both sides, and he can hardly let go when Irina comes back to herself, drawing back to stand on her own before him.

"I'm okay."

"Let's move on, then."

And though they slip seamlessly back into professionalism, weapons out, Jack refuses to give up her hand. He holds onto her tightly (_she doesn't fight him_) and they make their way tiredly and haltingly and warily home.

--

Irina heads straight for the bed, falling more than sitting onto it, and strips off layers until she is down to a sleeveless shirt. The action reopens her wound, and she presses a cloth to it absentmindedly, her eyes focused somewhere beyond. Jack goes to her after securing the house and digging out the med kit. He drops two painkillers into her hand, ones that should help bring down her fever as well as ease her pain, and she swallows them before he can give her the glass of water.

"Drink," he says in the gentle-firm voice people use when they're dealing with the sick. It feels strange, taking care of Irina this way.

He takes over the wound-tending from her as she dutifully sips at the water – it will not fully rehydrate her, but it's all they have. She was right; it's not a bad gash, and she hasn't lost much blood. She hisses a little when he cleans it and stitches it up as carefully as possible (_he thinks his hands are too big for work like this_). Her eyes are only half-open now, and it's only a matter of time before her exhaustion overwhelms her completely.

The med kit is (typically) rather useless – nothing to deal with hypotension or restore electrolytes, not even a thermometer. Jack makes a mental note to yell at someone for cutting corners on medical supplies before he remembers that the CIA, for once, isn't responsible for this mess. Irina is pretty well beyond cooperating with him to help herself. She's had as much water as she can stand, and what can be easily taken care of, has been. He can't be sure how high her fever is (and he wishes it was much lower), but she is not hallucinating or unresponsive, the indicators of a truly dangerous condition.

He turns down the bed while she kicks out of her boots and fatigues. He pulls the lightest sheet over her, and if his hand lingers a little too long on her back, on her forehead yet again, he tells himself it doesn't matter because she is already asleep, and even if she isn't she will never remember this.

He's planning on sitting up in the chair in the corner so he can keep an eye on her. He might even be able to get through the files they've stolen to see if there is anything useful there (_this is a lie; he won't turn his eyes from her_). He has already convinced himself of this course of action and is thus wholly startled when her voice emerges from somewhere in the tangle of linen.

"Jack, just get in the damn bed."

He hesitates (_just a blink_). He doesn't want to make anything worse, flood her with more body heat when she already can't deal with her own. But she asked him to, and that is reason enough. He climbs in beside her, not too close, letting her choose what is comfortable. There is the barest pressure of a hand against his chest before it falls down to intertwine their fingers. Through this single point of contact, they hold on.

--

Jack lies with her, watching her sleep. His thumb rubs over the back of her hand, keeping time like a metronome though neither is aware of this. He drifts into a doze sometimes and reawakens with a sense of alarm until he tests her skin and feels that she is cooler under his fingertips.

She is not sleeping like a spy tonight. She is deep under, still and barely twitching with the usual stirrings of sleep. He tries to drink in everything about her. She never stays this motionless in daylight, never lets herself be observed so unguardedly, and his heart throbs with impulsive protectiveness and love for this woman(_just a woman, as he is a man_).

He wakes, and the different quality of darkness in the room shows him that dawn is approaching by degrees. He must have fallen asleep. He once again runs the back of his hand against Irina's forehead – and now he is taken aback by her warmth. She's too hot. He reaches for her arm to try to rouse her, and he suddenly notices the heaviness and quietness about her form that cannot be attributed to slumber but to unconsciousness.

His breath catches as he shakes her gently. "Irina?"

No response.

--

Poor Irina, she's getting all the hard knocks in this one. Just one more long section (or maybe two shorter) to go.


	3. Three

AN: Thanks to all you readers and reviewers out there! This is it – the final part. My medical expertise is based entirely off of Wikipedia, so, really, you can't expect much. Consider yourselves warned. Oh, and I still don't own these characters, etc.

_--_

_you are my sweetest downfall (I loved you first)_

_--_

Jack quickly lays two fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. It's rapid and thready, and he thinks his own heartbeat rises in response – he will _not _be left behind again.

But he can't afford to let this get personal right now. His mind is already compartmentalizing the situation, years of training and practice sliding into place effortlessly. All of his medical knowledge is brought forth, scanned, synthesized, and everything else recedes into the background. Irina is just a person who needs to be helped, indistinguishable from the other billions of people in the world. Just human machinery (bones and blood and lungs and heart) that must be kept working.

He's made it to the bathroom, the living heat of her against his chest, with no memory of moving. His hand fumbles on the shower knobs a little, adjusting the temperature and strength of the spray until he thinks it is right. It takes more awkward manoeuvring to get them both into the shower (Europeans aren't known for their expansive baths) and under the cool-but-not-cold water that he hopes will begin to lower her fever and shock her out of this frightening stupor. He leans back into the wall, and she's prone and draped up against him. One arm is wrapped securely around her waist, and the other keeps her head tilted so she can't inhale any water. He streaks some moisture over her face to help draw out the warmth.

Wetness is seeping through his clothes, prickling the skin below and weighing him down, and he's running through the alternatives they have if he can't revive Irina himself. It's an incredibly short list. Both of them are working off-the-record and being caught together would likely have disastrous consequences. No doubt Irina had some sort of backup system in place – after all, this was her mission and her safe house – but all that was useless if she couldn't share that information.

They are alone. _He_ is alone, surrounded by the howling of old pipes.

And awareness comes in a burst: suddenly she jerks in his arms, her body instinctively readying itself for a fight even before her eyes open. Movement and sound come in unfocused surges now – her rapid breathing (_like one saved from drowning_), his hands tightening to still her, the wild-weak resistance she throws back at him (she thinks only of escape, confined and confused as she is), the gentle things he whispers to comfort her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his only fully-formed thought is: _is this what she's like after she's been tortured?_

He guides her eyes the small distance up to his, letting his fingers comb through her hair, willing her to breathe deeply and recognize him. It takes a minute for her bewildered expression to resolve itself into something more lucid, and then she seems ashamed, looks down into the neutral space between them. And though she can stand on her own now, he pulls her back into his embrace. Her head fits comfortably in the space between his neck and shoulder, and her arms wrap firmly around his waist. His free hand rubs soothing patterns over her spine.

"Do you remember where we are? What happened?"

She nods (barely) into his shoulder. He's tired of silences – _too much like the grave_. "Talk to me, Irina."

He feels a bunching of fabric against his back as she pulls at his clothes. "You're ruining your shirt."

Jack wants to laugh. In relief, and at the strangeness of their lives, and because he loves her. "It's just water. It'll dry."

"No, the colour's running."

So it is. He looks down and sees little dark trickles of dye on his arms. The water collecting around the shower drain is a murky grey. "Well," he says, the thought hanging unfinished and unvoiced. _You're rather more important, dear._

He presses his lips to her forehead (just checking her temperature, of course) and is satisfied with what he feels. Still warm but closer to normal, and Jack knows that letting her cool down too much is just as dangerous. Averting one crisis per day is more than enough, he thinks.

Their sodden clothing streams water across the floor tiles as they step out of the shower. He helps Irina strip and leaves her wrapped in a towel while he goes to find new things for them to change into. He moves quickly, grabbing whatever he sees first, so that she won't become chilled as she waits. Neither of them turns away from the other out of modesty, but the moment lacks sexual overtones – it is something casual, companionable.

He leads Irina back to the bedroom, settles her in the one armchair where she keeps towelling her hair dry. He gets another glass of water and shakes two more pills into her hand, finding a somewhat-comfortable way to kneel on the floor in front of her so he can watch her.

She stares back at him over the rim of the glass, finally muttering, "You're hovering."

"Sorry." He starts to stand up again, but she catches him by the wrist before he can move away from her.

"No, Jack...I...thank you."

Their gazes meet a little awkwardly. It's one of those unexpectedly sincere, _human _moments between them, when they find themselves talking instead of pointedly _not _addressing the past, or their obvious chemistry, or how well they function together. Actively caring for each other is uncharacteristic for their relationship. Sort of. It's become harder and harder to predict their actions (and their emotions) the more time they spend alone, the more time Sydney remains lost.

Irina is looking at him with a mixture of uncertainty and practiced indifference.

Jack adjusts her grip on his hand until their fingers are interlocked, sinking back down to sit at her feet. "You scared me."

Irina smiles softly at him (_he sees Laura in it, in her_) and says, "Boo?"

And now he has to smile too, just as gently, his voice sweetly serious. "Don't do it again."

She reaches out to stroke his head, run her fingers through his hair, but it's still wet. Her damp towel is unceremoniously dropped over him, blinding him, and her hands slowly massage the moisture out of his hair. Her movements are still slightly uncoordinated.

Jack shrugs the towel off, intending to suggest that they go back to bed, but she catches his mouth with a kiss before he can speak. There's no lust, no violent urgency behind it, and that makes it all the more tender and penetrating. This, too, is new for them. Their relationship has always been based on passion and power – and looking back, he recognizes his relationship with 'Laura' was similarly intense.

It's over quickly. Irina breaks the kiss after a few seconds, already breathless. She looks as startled as he feels. So he takes over, following her lead and trying to share himself with her on that same quiet-vulnerable level. He touches his forehead to hers. And he thinks they have never been so close (_breathing as one_).

"The sun's rising."

--

This time they lie in each other's arms, eliminating the distance between them.

"Don't you have a flight to catch?" Irina had asked.

Technically, yes, he did, but it could be rescheduled. Berlin wasn't exactly a backwater town; flights back to the US were practically superfluous. He told her as much.

"But this is dangerous, Jack – us being together," she had protested. "You shouldn't stay."

"This is dangerous too," he said, tapping her still-warm forehead. "Besides, at this point they either suspect us of being in contact or they don't. One more day isn't going to make a difference."

She could have easily kicked him out, despite her condition, but she didn't.

Jack stays awake again, observing her.

Their mission protocol has changed drastically over the past year. At first, it was only business. Gathering intel, tracking down leads, or dealing with underworld contacts. They hardly spoke to each other unless it was specifically about Sydney. The third time they met, they slept together. But it was driven by frustration and anger (_they had learned nothing, almost walking into a trap_), and they still glared at each other the next morning. The same thing happened two weeks later. That became the pattern: taking care of business, falling into bed to forget their failures, sneaking out into the dawn before one could realize the other was gone.

As time passed it started to become less and less about Sydney and more about what they could give to each other. And it didn't mean that they were any less willing to risk it all for their daughter, or that they were letting her go without a fight. A life simply can't be built on dead ends. There must be something more, something consistent and real (_human heat_) to keep one from turning to the bottle or the gun barrel.

Jack knows (and knows that Irina knows) that their relationship is fucked up. They've got history; they've got baggage. It will never be normal or straightforward or healthy. But he thinks that they have perhaps changed, grown together, as much as two spies who have been in the game too long can change.

It's a quiet morning, with sunlight streaming in through the filmy curtains. The beginning of an ordinary day for most people – but Jack and Irina were never like 'most people.' To sleep and wake together (_neither trying to slip away_), to blow off responsibilities for a day, to be _happy_...is simply remarkable.

He doesn't want to waste this stolen time. He can sleep later.

--

Irina wakes in the late afternoon, and both are embarrassed, unsure (_like first-time lovers, just before the thrust_) where their relationship stands. They can't exactly be friends in this business, but to ignore everything that has happened between them...that can't happen either.

"How are you feeling?" About as neutral as it gets, he thinks.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, efficiently pulling her hair back and stretching so that all of her joints crack at the same time. She winces a little as this movement pulls at her stitches. But she does seem more vital, more like the ironclad woman he's used to facing, albeit somewhat (adorably) rumpled and tired-eyed.

"Better." She skilfully avoids his glance without seeming to – a deflective tactic, but one that leaves an opening. She wants him to set the tone.

So he slips his arms around her and lets her relax into him. She sighs into his chest contentedly.

"Is there any food in here? You should eat something."

"Unlikely. I hadn't planned on staying here this long." She pulls him closer (_don't go_). "I'm not hungry anyway."

He knew she would say that. It's not like he's eager to go out and leave her, but he does want to take care of her properly, and they both need to eat. He gives her his best severe, disapproving look until they both begin to laugh, and she relents, knowing that he's not going to drop the subject.

"There should be a corner shop about a block east."

He kisses her slowly, tenderly, though not without an edge of desire. As he moves about the room, gathering clothes and money, he can feel her watching him, her gentle scrutiny. Hand to doorknob, he looks back.

"I'm not going anywhere, Jack." Her voice is light, her expression absolutely serious. "I promise."

And for all the promises she's broken, he's willing to believe her on this one. If only because he highly doubts she can make it far on her own (or so he tells himself).

He nods, mouth softening into a hint of a smile. "I know."

--

They both pretend he doesn't sprint there and back, returning in under five minutes.

He can tell Irina desperately wants to tease him about it, but she covers her amusement well. It stings for both of them, this acknowledgement of the lack of trust between them.

The domestic act (he makes tea and toast for both of them; they sit knee-to-knee on the bed to eat, talking about trivial things) is no easier, dragging up memories better left buried and reminding them how temporary this day is – tomorrow will bring old duties, new betrayals. So they both become spies again, slipping behind their usual disguises, one moment being too kind with each other, the next being too distant.

There's nothing more for them to say. They lie together, face to face, two sides of a coin. They doze off in turns, resting and waking fitfully and communicating through touches and silences during the intervals.

When morning breaks, Jack awakens alone.

A simple note is left on Irina's pillow. _I'll make it up to you next time._

Semyonov's disk is gone, as is every other shred of evidence that she had ever been in the house. Yet he still sees her, inhales her, senses her in the empty spaces. He smiles.

Yes. Next time.

(_She will always come back to him_)

--

Opening quotes for the sections borrowed from Erica Jong, Fay Weldon, and Regina Spektor's song 'Samson.'

Hope you enjoyed it! I've got plans for more J/I fic, though you may have to wait a bit to get at it. My spring break has just started, and I'll be travelling for the next few weeks without a computer. But...watch this space?

Thanks again =D


End file.
